Razor Burn

In my head there are streets where

The men of talent go—Berliner,

Parisienne—They rattle at the tables.

If there were time (but there is

No time)—The dry pen in my

Pocket meets the crumpled page on

My desk. There are streets in my

Head, lovely streets, and dark.

The walk is long—Los Angeles to

Birkenau—The walk is long and
we whistle as we go.

No lesser guide will do, my Florentine,

No lesser guide will do. If we are

To pass and know the unseen city

Without, within us, only the builder

Shall be the guide. Hail—well met!

And lead us on.

Johann is singing now of spring,

Of pretty girls in May,

And Tom is singing

Of the fall

(Or better, when the fall becomes the winter,

When the decaying dies and turns to barren,

When the puddles freeze

And the sun is white

And the only bird we see

Is the flashing cardinal

In the bare and perfect trees).

If there were time,

But there is no time—

Let’s take a tour, my fellows—

Viennese, Mancunian—let’s take

A tour of my own country

Where I can show you

The crooked bones—

The crooked heart—

The pulse of poison in my brain.

Let’s take a tour, my men of letters,

And see the summer of our lives.

There are streets inside my head

Where lesser guides are lost,

Where men of talent drink and cry

And make verses without meter.

I wish that I were only

Missing some piece—

“Why, he lacks this perfecting part!

That should not be… Here we are,

Good as new, a right Lazarus of a man!”—

I wish I had a jigsaw heart.

But what am I,

If not “I”?

I do and speak and act and am.

There is no other I.

If there were time, but there is no time…

I have heard the sound of his approach,

Been wary of his feet.

Run to ground, run to ground—

Foxes have their holes—

If there were time but there is no time.

He is the hunt behind all hunters,

The heat that leads us to caress

He routs me out! He routs me out!

I cannot stand the coming—

John is rapt and pleased withal—

I smolder and I bruise!

There are streets within my head

Where doors are framed in blood

But my house, my hearth remain

Without. Die ganze Welt ist

Heimat, treu, die volle Welt,

Die häuslich' Erde auch.

I fold me up,

I pray and sleep,

I sleep and dream—

I pray and dream of cities.

Are you drunk?

No, it’s Lent.

Ashes to ashes—

In my flesh—

Dust to dust—

I will see God—

A pen of iron,

       A serpent, bronze.